


Who said the spirit is willing?

by Thylogale



Series: Theoretically, the world would be better if... [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America Wasn't a Hero, Anxiety, Canada is Worried, Depressed Alfred, Dubcon Cuddling, Everyone Has Issues, He'll be ok, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Poor Alfred, Psychological Trauma, Russia Wants to Help, Self-Destructive Behavior, Sleep disorders, So is England, The Nations Try to Help, a lot of misunderstandings, and Alfred is sorry, eventually, mentions of 2P Hetalia, no beta we die like men, they get cleared up, unhealthy attitudes toward eating, unspecified disorders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23471626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thylogale/pseuds/Thylogale
Summary: Alfred has hung on for a long time, but now he grips the end of the rope and his will is slipping. America no longer needs him, he doesn't feel loved anymore, and something -- someone -- inside him wants him gone. The other Nations are not as oblivious to his depression as he assumes, nor are they as willing to let him fall. However, their methods of "helping" when he refuses their aid are questionable.As regrets are expressed, scars exposed, and feelings come to light, Alfred may not be the only one who heals.
Relationships: America (Hetalia) & Everyone, Past America/South Vietnam, pre America/World
Series: Theoretically, the world would be better if... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688542
Kudos: 45





	Who said the spirit is willing?

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags. Things will get worse before they get better.

* * *

He couldn’t help. It wasn’t for lack of effort. 

He couldn’t convince Britain to give his people representation when he was a colony. The British Empire was far too arrogant to consider the suggestions of a mere child, and, besides, America hadn’t known how to speak in the way Britain respected when it came to business. He couldn’t stop the Boston Massacre, or any of the bloodshed that was to come afterward. That rainy day of bittersweet independence, after all his people sacrificed for freedom, part of his heart broke as the British Empire, and _Arthur_ , the man who protected and cared for him and _hand-made him toy soldiers to play with_ fell to his knees and _cried_. He could feel the relief and pride from the soldiers behind him, but it did nothing to drown the terrible, guilt-ridden thoughts of, “ _What have I done?_ ”.

He couldn’t stop the acidulous words that slithered from his mouth. He couldn’t cry until he was alone, back in his house where Arthur had stayed with him for so long. Then, he couldn’t stop crying, so he shut himself away, and he couldn’t be the joyful new Nation his people expected him to be.

He couldn’t stop the states from fighting like they did after independence, though the Confederacy, fortunately, did not last long.

He couldn’t save his people. Not when _they_ were the problem. Despite what his colonists believed, the native Americans were his people as well, just as the slaves were. He was _America_ , but he was a white man. Before the colonists, he came from the land in anticipation for the nation to come. Centuries later, his country was far more diverse but still struggled with the concept of skin color. He wasn’t sure if it was enough to hold the nation’s soul, but how could he look right: for everyone?

He couldn’t change his body for them, and he became more and more certain it wouldn’t matter. Change had to come from within his people, so he supported the abolitionists, the suffragettes, and the muckrakers. He was accustomed to disapproval, after the many arguments with Britain preceding his independence. He was not used to being incarcerated over such disagreements, to the force-feeding, to the beatings, and the _intensity_ of the verbal abuse. Arthur had always loved him, even when driven up the wall with frustration. His people – America’s people – hated him, they hated each other, and they hated themselves. They also loved him, which was disorienting. Sometimes he felt incredibly proud of himself and his country; those moments were rare with the perpetual onslaught of negativity his people experienced and contrasted greatly with his more common melancholy.

Ultimately, he just felt useless. Matthew helped. The Canadian had been visiting him since… Since when? His memory gave out on him, but no matter: it would return. He guessed his mind wasn’t as sharp anymore. Sometimes his mouth would catch around familiar words, or entire lines of thought would suddenly vanish. Matthew was patient with him when he stuttered, but he was the only one. It was funny, in a way. The sun never set on him, but he couldn’t get up most mornings. Other Nations associated him with his obesity rate, but, since the Revolution, he – Alfred – had periods where he struggled to eat, and he’d never been overweight. Others criticized him for being lazy, and he supposed he couldn’t argue with that. Energy came to him in short bursts amid long stretches of fatigue. When his most recent boss was elected, he told him his government didn’t need him anymore and made security escort him away when he argued. The president grudgingly allowed him to attend summits because… Actually, he wasn’t sure why, but he was the middleman now and had little to no authority on decisions or agreements. Anxiety and ennui consumed him in turn. All in all, it was pathetic. 

Matthew visited more often now for increasing lengths of time. He didn’t complain. He just…took care of him, and he hated it. He wanted to be thankful, yet all he could feel was guilt.

He couldn’t…he just…couldn’t, and there was more to say about that, but was it worth mentioning? All the “couldn’t”s built up, nearly pushed in to the point of implosion, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. Worst of all, he knew, rationally, he had gotten _some_ things right. He was a superpower, for God's sake! It just didn't feel significant in the face of all his mistakes. Of _Vietna_ —

Artificial light glinted off a visible sliver of stainless steel in the sink. The fridge had stopped humming, leaving the kitchen eerily silent except for a familiar high-pitched buzz.

_He loved her._

Was it the lightbulb? Incandescent was supposed to be quieter, but it still made his skin crawl. Or was it tinnitus?

_He couldn’t save her._

His hands shook. The steel felt comforting, even several feet away. He left the unfinished cup of applesauce on the counter and tried to sleep.

Heady amber fluid stung his throat. Whoever owned the gold-trimmed teacup before him would be disappointed. The pink and blue flowers looked hand-painted – very English. Now that he thought about it, if Arthur gifted it to him (which he wouldn’t have), the rest of the set should be in his house somewhere.

Either he had a 20th-century tea set missing one cup in his storage room, or England was very frustrated that he’d lost one of his antiques.

That should have been funny. Alfred laughed, and no one was around to hear how unnatural it sounded.

He helped in the first world war, and again in the second. He had been late both times. Maybe if he had sent troops sooner, _maybe_ …

Arthur hadn’t wanted him in Africa. Not with him. It wasn’t fair, because Roosevelt and Churchill got along so well, and he knew it was childish to feel that way. He could never tell England, but his insults and condescending remarks cut deep.

Alfred wouldn’t tell anyone, but being alone felt unbearable. Shadows coiled around his mind and soul, while dark silhouettes watched him at night. Sometimes, it felt like someone else was in his head, speaking with his thoughts. He felt a presence, a pressure, pushing him, but he didn’t know where it wanted him to go. 

If he left, would everyone be happier?

Japan visited and seemed to enjoy discussing video games with him. At least, America hoped he did, but there were parts of his culture Japan did not seem to like, and maybe that would be ok if his friend was straight-forward about it. Instead, America just felt silently judged, and that type of passive aggression was something he didn’t know how to deal with. He also wasn’t sure if it was merely shallow tension or if it was something more profound. Had Japan forgiven him for dropping the atomic bombs on his cities? Was he forgiven for his people’s war crimes? For the internment camps? Was it how much control his military had over Japan’s airspace? Was it Trump? 

America tried to be friendly toward Russia and China, noting that, for multiple reasons, tension during the G20 meetings ran high. His people had hated Russia for a long time. Alfred wanted to put it all behind them: the further, the better. The Cold War ended, and Alfred's temper cooled enough to stop intentionally picking fights, but the Russian remained distant. Sure, they talked more now and didn't overtly insult each other, they ate lunch together, and Russia even visited him a few times. Despite this, or perhaps because something inside Alfred was twisted and couldn't work correctly, he always felt as if his presence burdened the giant. Their relationship took a dip when Russia annexed/invaded Crimea, and again when the American government started investigating Russian interference in its elections. Alfred avoided those subjects outside meetings. Relations with China were suffering from the ongoing trade war, but they had been rough for decades before that too. In all likelihood, the relationship between his country and theirs would not smooth out anytime soon. Alfred disagreed with a lot of the things their governments had done, but there were many times he disagreed with his own government as well.

China seemed, understandably, suspicious of his motives. Russia never asked what he wanted, but Alfred thought that, maybe, the question still hung in the air between them, unspoken. He couldn't tell them he saw the same masks on them that he wore, particularly in Russia's case. Was hard to always smile so gently -- did it hurt? Did he remember what was underneath? Alfred had caught glimpses, over the years, when he instigated brawls that ended with them both covered in bruises. There was pain. There was anger. He still saw it every so often. Did he ever cry, or was he incapable now, after such a long period of grief? 

He was amicable with Germany – not overly friendly, just decent, but he received suspicious glances from said Nation nonetheless. On the one hand, it made sense after what American soldiers had done during World War II. If there were ever any heroes in war, none were in that one. However, he had thought, since their countries had been closer recently, they could get along. As he had seen with England, that wasn’t always how it worked.

Other Nations, particularly England and France, accused him of “sucking up.” He had never been particularly cunning or tactful. When he wanted something, he said so. It hurt to know they, especially England, his former mentor, had forgotten such a painfully obvious part of his personality.

If they didn’t know him, it was his fault. He pushed them away. England had offered to be his friend once. If only! He had wanted to accept, but friendship based on pity wasn’t good enough (and just because he was talking to whales, didn’t mean he lonely). Maybe if he had accepted, perhaps if he had let him in, England would be able to tolerate him again. The problem was, he couldn’t let anyone in. He wanted friends, but he couldn’t feel _close_ or _loved_ anymore, and he knew that hurt Mattie, but he _couldn’t stop it_.

Recalling anything specific one might consider “good” about him was harder than remembering he had a list of those qualities. It was like swimming in blackstrap molasses. Alfred couldn’t swim to begin with.

America attended the most recent NATO meeting grudgingly. The fact that the personified members of the organization accomplished less than their leaders was rather pitiful, considering their leaders couldn’t stop verbally sparring with each other. Meetings involving personifications, however, often devolved into physical brawls. In recent years, they had become even less organized. About half of each session was Germany yelling at them to stay on topic. Alfred wondered if the others were as useless to their governments as he was.

He knew he would have to talk. His mind seemed to wander more than usual today. The ground felt like it was bobbing beneath him – up, down, up, down, _up_ , _down_ … When he was in the marines, some of the sailors liked to play with a Japanese skull they collected on the battlefield. After the war, Alfred returned it to Japan and apologized for his military’s violations of the 1929 Geneva Convention. He wasn’t sure how to describe Japan’s expression then, but he hoped he’d done the right thing.

America’s eyes hurt. When he closed them, he thought he might collapse. He had taken a ridiculous amount of melatonin the night before, but a Nation’s metabolism was much faster than a human’s. His stomach growled as it clenched around nothing. He grimaced. Eating had become an unpleasant chore. A lot of solid things made him sick, so he stocked his kitchen with yogurts, applesauce, and soups. Perhaps an insufficient intake of calories contributed to his perpetual fatigue, but he thought he was eating ok. Regardless, whatever insidious illness Alfred unwillingly harbored, he had to face it alone: both because he couldn’t find the words or voice to express it and because he didn’t trust other Nations with the knowledge. It was exhausting, though.

For fuck’s sake, he would literally do just about anything to stop pretending. Better yet, could he please just say, “Screw it,” and “nope” out of the inane _, meaningless_ , blithering folderol awaiting him? _Please_.

He strode into the Nation’s NATO meeting room with a broad, plastered on smile, fashionably late, carrying a grease-stained bag of fries and chowing down on a burger he already planned to regurgitate later, if only to ease the stomach ache it would give him, he boisterously apologized, took the subsequent insults with grace, and tried not to tremble as he took his seat. If that seemed like a lot, it was. Even without the scowls and glares other countries seemed to give him every time they caught him staring (Wasn’t it respectful to look at someone when they were talking?), he knew it would be a long day.


End file.
